


someone to hold

by memestreets



Category: Mean Streets (1973)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, this doesn't escalate very far but it is tender and that's what counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memestreets/pseuds/memestreets
Summary: rooftop sitting, bed sharing fluff from your favorite repressed gayngsters.
Relationships: Charlie Cappa/John "Johnny Boy" Civello
Kudos: 11





	someone to hold

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day! i _think_ i got the title from a doo-wop song but i didn't write down which one and i couldn't find it again so who knows. also this was originally written as two different fics that i realized flowed well together so i ended up sticking em together–wonder if you can tell where. anyway, enjoy

Johnny’s already been up on the roof for half an hour when Charlie came up. He’d spent a lot of that time just pacing around, writing aimless unsteady patterns onto the concrete with his footsteps, but he’s sitting with his back to a wall looking out over the edge when Charlie appears.

“Hey,” Charlie says, letting out a soft grunt as he settles down next to him. “What’re you sitting up here for?”

Johnny shrugs. “Just liked the view.”

Charlie cracks a wry grin. “Didn’t think you were the type to appreciate that kind of thing.”

Johnny gives him a look that was half smile, half scowl. “I like bein’ up on the roof. There’s room up here–not like in the street where I can’t fuckin’ move without somebody on my ass. Can’t fuckin’ breathe.”

“Fair enough. Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” Johnny lies.

“If you’re sure.”

They sit there for a moment, not talking, watching the lights of cars go by on the asphalt below them. Johnny shivers a little in the cold wind blowing across the roof. He glances sidelong at Charlie, eyeing his arms in particular, but doesn’t look him properly in the face.

“Hey, Charlie?” he says softly.

Charlie looks at him, but Johnny doesn’t look back. “Yeah?”

“Uh…” He just sits there in silence, heart pounding, because  _ You’re the only person in the world I give two shits about and that includes myself, _ isn’t something he can say, not now, not ever. He wants to put an arm around Charlie but he can’t do that either.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Charlie frowns at him, leaning forward to try to meet his eyes; Johnny won’t let him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just told you.”

“Then what’d you say my name for?”

Johnny shrugs and mumbles, “I don’t know.”

Charlie sighs and shakes his head a little and stops staring at him, and Johnny’s chest tightens. So he doesn’t have the balls to initiate anything, but when Charlie’s always the one touching  _ him _ , the one slapping him and shoving him around, can you fucking blame him? Johnny can’t put an arm around him no matter how bad he wants to, he just doesn’t have the right; that’s not how things work with them. It’s not allowed.

Damn if he doesn’t want to, though.

They sot in silence for a couple minutes; Johnny draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, hoping it isn’t too obvious he’s shaking.

“Are you alright?” Charlie says eventually.

“Why wouldn't I be alright?”

“You just seem quieter than normal.”

Johnny gives him a dirty side-eye and snaps, “I'm  _ fine _ , Charlie. Nothing the matter with me,” and immediately Charlie knows it’s a massive lie.

“If there  _ was _ anything wrong you would tell me, right?” he probes.

“Sure.” An even bigger lie.

“Because I wanna help you.”

“Sure.”

“Because I'm your friend.”

“Sure.”

“Can you say anything besides ‘sure’?” Charlie says, a little sharper than he means to.

“ _ Sure _ . I can quit saying it if you quit asking me stupid questions.”

Charlie sighs and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push any further.

Johnny shrinks in on himself. He doesn’t know what the hell’s wrong with him tonight–or anytime, really. Why had he gotten so pissed off over a few friendly questions? He'd been sitting here for an hour desperate for some kind of attention, but the moment Charlie gave it to him he was suddenly on the defensive.

Well–maybe if it hadn't been a bunch of bullshit it wouldn't have pissed him off so bad.

A few more minutes pass, silent once more, and Johnny shifts around in a vain attempt to get comfortable. He glances at Charlie, who’s taken a pack of cards out of his pocket and is playing with them to keep his hands busy, shuffling over and over without paying any real attention. Johnny tears his eyes away, too nervous to keep looking at him. Instead he stares off into the neon-lit New York night for some time–maybe five minutes, maybe an hour–until his mind’s gone mostly blank, then at long last, and still without looking, he slides his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. What surprises him was how readily Charlie leans into it; it’s almost immediate, as if by instinct rather than conscious decision. After a few seconds he hasn't moved, though, and Johnny gets up the nerve to lean into him back. He’s comfortingly warm, noticeable even through both their jackets. Johnny sits quietly and listens to the sound of shuffling cards, his eyes half-lidded, but after a couple minutes the sound goes away as Charlie tucks them back in his pocket and puts his arm around Johnny’s back; a startling development to be sure, but not an unpleasant one. Johnny slumps against him and lets their heads rest together, and Charlie’s hand resting against his side tightens just slightly in response. Johnny closes his eyes.

Charlie’s trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his chest and doing a bad job. Something’s definitely up with Johnny, and it’s starting to genuinely worry him; he hasn't seen the kid like this, all quiet and morose-looking, in a long time, and Johnny’s never been one for talking about it. He's never been one for getting cozy like this either–at least, he rarely initiates it–although he certainly doesn’t mind curling up in Charlie’s bed given the chance, a chance Charlie probably gives him more than he ought to. That’s the odd thing, the thing Charlie’s just now realizing: Johnny never initiates. This is the first time in ages, as far as Charlie can remember, that he has.

“Johnny?” Charlie says quietly, about to ask him that same uncomfortable question–is he okay–again, but there’s no response. “Johnny?” He tries as best he can to turn his head without disturbing him, and realizes Johnny’s gone right to sleep leaned against him. Well, let him rest, Charlie figures; it’s rare to see him this peaceful, and as far as he knows the little fool never sleeps at night. He'd seemed tired from the start, come to think of it, had certainly had a dazed sort of quality to him. Charlie sighs and settles himself a little more comfortably against the wall they’re leaning on, deciding to let Johnny sleep for a bit.

Johnny wakes with a soft groan to someone shaking him by the shoulder and a familiar voice repeating his name. He opens his eyes blearily, wondering why his face and hands are so cold and why his ass is so sore, before realizing where he is. “Huh...Charlie?”

“Rise and shine, Flash.”

“My bad,” he mumbles automatically, withdrawing his arm from around Charlie, but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Don't worry about it. Come on, let's go get some dinner. I'm starved.”

His stomach drops. “Uh, Charlie, I don't…” he can’t finish the sentence:  _ I don't have any money on me _ .

“I'll pay for it,” Charlie says, his tone just the slightest bit teasing, and Johnny gives him a small smile.

“Thanks,” he says, sincerely, and gets up to follow Charlie down to the street. 

They go for Chinese food, because of course they do, and they actually eat it in the restaurant for once instead of getting takeout–in this weather it’d be cold before they could get back anywhere to eat it. They talk between bites about movies and neighborhood gossip and a car Johnny saw the other day that he thinks would be a really sweet ride, and Charlie cracks a smile watching him spear an eggroll on his chopsticks; despite the fact Johnny gets dinner here like three times a week, he’s never actually learned to use the damn things. Half the time he ends up just digging a fork out of one of the kitchen drawers.

Johnny gets kind of a knot in his stomach when the bill comes, but Charlie pays just like he said he would, without even mentioning it again, and Johnny catches his eye for a brief second and then looks away.

“My mother’s out on the Island again.” Charlie drops this casually as they're walking home from the bar, taking the scenic route because Johnny saw a guy he still owed money and darted off down a side street, certain he was going to be seen. 

This is a hint, and Johnny picks up on it.

It's going to be one of  _ those _ nights.

“On the Island,” he repeats. “Visiting your grandma?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s sick again?”

“She’s  _ been _ sick the whole time, stupid,” Charlie retorts, swatting at him, and Johnny tries not to flinch away too visibly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He did, and he’s not sure why he had to say that.

Charlie knows this is bullshit, but he lets it go with a sigh. “It’s alright.” They walk in silence for a moment. “I’ve got the apartment to myself,” he continues.

“Mhm.” Johnny doesn’t play along; he wants to hear Charlie say it.

“It gets quiet with no one else there...I, uh…”

_ Go on, say it _ .

“I was wondering if you wanted to stay tonight.”

Johnny’s heart soars, but he lets a second tick past before answering. “Yeah, sure.” He scratches the back of his neck as the excitement turns suddenly to nerves.

The walk back to Charlie’s apartment is unusually quiet. They chat idly a little about a movie billboard they pass and things in store windows, but Johnny’s not running his mouth rapidfire like he normally does. Charlie notices this, a little worried by it, but decides not to press the issue. Johnny gets almost silent as they head up to the door. He’s not sure what’s wrong with him, why suddenly the inside of his head is blank as fresh paper; his mouth is dry.

“Gonna go to sleep,” he mumbles as they step inside.

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees distantly, “it is late.”

They don’t talk as they get undressed. Johnny stands in the middle of the room in his underwear, staring at nothing as Charlie lays down, and when he snaps back to reality he catches Charlie looking at him.

“You coming or what?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, getting into the bed, dragging the blanket up over his shoulder, facing the window because if he looks Charlie in the face again he thinks he might scream. He’s tired, dead tired, but too nervous to sleep; he shuts his eyes anyway and presses his face against the pillow, like he can force the exhaustion to overtake him, force his brain to shut off. His heartbeat’s so fluttery it makes him feel sick.

Charlie stares up at the ceiling with half-closed eyes as Johnny bunks down next to him, apparently avoiding contact, avoiding even looking at him, and he feels like he’s fucked up somehow. He doesn’t get it; Johnny initiated earlier, Johnny agreed to stay over...although he did seem a little hesitant, like he was avoiding the hint. He knew full well what that “my mother’s on the Island” comment had meant, and Charlie knows that. It’s not the first time he’s said it.

He shuts his eyes and tries to go to sleep.

They lay there for awhile like the couple of fools there are, resolutely ignoring each other, until Johnny rolls a little onto his back and finally dozes off. Charlie hears the sheets rustle, feels the mattress shift as Johnny moves next to him, but he doesn’t look for a solid couple of minutes, just to ensure he won’t be met with any unfortunate surprises like wide-open eyes staring back. Then turns his head to the side.

Johnny’s pale and scrawny in the bluish moonlight from the window. Charlie looks him over real slow, up and down his narrow body, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the undershirt, the hard lean muscles in his arms, that stupid tattoo he got entirely on impulse that Charlie had given him so much shit for. His bangs falling freely across his forehead, the way his face looks in his sleep: peaceful, open. Charlie wants to touch him, badly, and the thought makes him kinda sick. He rolls over a little to face him better, heavily considering it, but instead he just tucks his hands against his own chest and closes his eyes, trying to go to sleep.

It’s still dark when Charlie wakes up again, and he doesn’t feel right at all, still uneasy and almost ill from the echoes of a dream he can barely remember. A heavy melancholy settles in his chest like a paperweight on his heart, a stone lodged between his ribs; the pain is so vivid it’s physical. He looks at Johnny again, and the urge to touch him is stronger than ever. The lack of space between them startles him; their arms are only inches apart, their faces so close it makes him afraid to move. Charlie sighs quietly and just lays there for awhile, looking at him.

Johnny cracks his eyes open. Charlie doesn’t notice it at first, but after a few seconds his irises are thin dark glimmers visible between his eyelids.

“What?” Johnny mumbles, still half-asleep and confused why he’s being stared at. 

Charlie drops his gaze hurriedly. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” There’s silence for a moment, then Johnny says quietly, “You okay, Charlie?”

This startles Charlie into glancing up again. “Yeah.”

They lay there for few moments just looking at each other. There’s a soft sheen to Charlie’s skin in the blue moonlight, like silver glitter on the edges of his face, and Johnny wonders how he’d react if he reached out to touch him. He looks warm, solid, comfortable. They’re awfully close.

Charlie can’t think about anything else but hugging him. He wants to pull Johnny in close, wrap an arm around his waist, bury his face in his hair. He sucks in a breath like he's about to speak, holds it, and finally lets it out when he can't come up with any words. He does that a couple times before finally murmuring, “Johnny…”

“Yeah?”

Charlie opens his mouth to say something else, but there's nothing to say. He shifts his arm a little, hand open: an invitation. Johnny scoots over until his forearm bumps Charlie’s wrist, and Charlie pulls him in. His bare arms are cool to the touch, and Charlie adjusts his hold to cover more like he's trying to keep him warm–he might be, actually. Johnny sighs and threads his fingers through Charlie’s hair. They lay there for a few minutes, basking in each other’s warmth; Charlie nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck, and Johnny lets slip the tiniest little giggle.

“You’re ticklish, huh?” Charlie mumbles, like he hasn’t known this for years.

“No,” Johnny replies, like he’s going to convince him.

Charlie considers messing with him for a moment, but decides to be merciful. “Well. You’re lucky I’m nice.” He tightens his arm around Johnny’s torso. Johnny shifts a little to cradle Charlie’s head better against his chest, nuzzling into his hair, and they settle into each other like a house settling into its foundation, like they’ve always belong this way. It reminds Charlie of the litter of stray kittens his grandmother raised out of a cardboard box in their tiny apartment when he was young, the way they’d all pile onto each other until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. He used to wish he could be one of them.

Charlie isn’t sure how long they stay that way, but he soon enough he’s beginning to doze off. “Goodnight, Johnny,” he mumbles, when he feels on the verge of falling asleep, face still buried in the crook of Johnny’s shoulder.

“G’night,” Johnny mumbles back.


End file.
